Revelation
by RE1Ncarnation366
Summary: In a futuristic human world, a social outcast with a desire for adventure finds the first man-made dragon. The fall and the destruction of the human civilization, and the rise of the dragon world. This is the origin story of the Scorching and how Pyrrhia came to be. T for descriptive violence and destruction.
1. Chapter 1

**Sorry I have to put this back.. heheh I made a mistake while updating chapter 2 when I put two Chapter 2s and some people got confused... Sorry!**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

The first time I discovered I was different, I was ten years old.

Father was still there back then.

That day, Mother had gotten us an inflatable pool in our backyard. I had never tried swimming before and I hadn't gotten wet once in my life. Father set up a diving board with old books and planks of wood. Mother dragged a few lawn chairs in under our peach tree and I got in a brand-new bathing suit. As soon as Father hammered the last nails in, I was ready. Father pulled off his work gloves and helped me on.

"Ready when you are!" He called.

Mother laughed. I spread my arms and walked one foot in front of another,, the way I saw people do on the NetScreens. I stepped out on the board shakily. The wood was rough and full of splinters, but as always, they just scraped past my skin. Of course, I didn't notice anything back then. As I reached the end, the wood became thinner and more unstable. Father, probably worried for my safety, said,

"You sure about that? You positive you won't fall off?" Hearing this, I chewed my lip nervously.

"Ummm…"

"Raphael, she's fine," Mother said. "She's brave." She turned to smile at me.

I turned and nodded. Just then, the wood cracked beneath my feet. Mother screamed and dropped her pitcher of lemonade. The plank of wood and I splashed into the pool. Afterwards, my parents told me what happened. I only remember so much. I only remembered the hot, searing pain that arced through my body as soon as I hit the water. For the first time in my life, something penetrated my skin and ran like a thousand hot iron rods through my body. Apparently there was something like lightning coursing through the pool and engulfing me. This part of my memory is hazy, but Father told me I was highly dysfunctional afterwards.

My mother got a full refund on the pool.

Afterwards, I never touched a drop of water again. Whether it was washing my hands, taking showers, standing at the sink, my mother always steered my clear of any contact with any liquid. After I fell in the pool, the only thing I clearly remember is her crying and kept on saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I forgot, I forgot." I didn't think much of it back then, but looking at it now, there was definitely something wrong with me.

And so the theories flowed.

When I was younger, my parents and I used to joke that maybe I was an alien! In fact, my first story was about how I landed on Earth in a spaceship. I think I might still have it, unless it had been burned or ripped to shreds. One of the cruder theories suggested that I had been adopted. My father used to tease me about this, which made me throw fits. Mother scolded him afterwards, although she laughed along.

Other people had theories too.

The girls in school thought I was a monster of some sort, the mysterious swamp monster that was birthed out of the poisonous cafeteria meatloaf. "Meatloaf" later became a nickname, The boys thought I was a robot. They picked fights with me.

I always won.

Father left when I was twelve. During that time, Mother became paranoid and angry. She smoked and drank a lot. I mostly kept quiet and kept to myself. I avoided her as much as I could. I remember one night when I got up in the middle of the night because I heard shouting and banging. I peeked around the corner and Mother was screaming, crying, smashing things. I ran upstairs, feeling no fear but only a sense of danger. I remember her throwing a pot of boiling drugs at me at I ran. She wailed at me:

"Get out of my house, you lifeless thing!"

I thought she was just angry, I never took what she said to heart.

I was fourteen when the Calamity Authorities found Father's corpse. It was on the news. Mother's depression worsened. So one day, I ran away. I threw everything into my backpack and ran. When I went downstairs, Mother was passed out on the couch, stacks and stacks of Vodka strewn all over the floor. I remembered there was blood, too, but I don't recall seeing where it came from.

That was the last sight I ever had of her.

* * *

"Paris, be a good girl and get your _Tante_ Genavié a coffee, will you, dear?"

Genavié purses her lips, spreading the lipstick around her mouth. She picks up an eyelash self-curler from the table and presses it against her fake lashes. They instantly tilt upward. I nod.

"You know the ration tickets are in the databases, _non?_ "

"Yeah." I exit her room, taking the book. I pause to ask: "Hey, _tante,_ can I borrow this book?"

She doesn't even look up from her makeup stand.

"Mmmm? Of course."

Genavié had an obsession for collecting antique books for a while before she became the absentminded, makeup and coffee-addicted pig she is. She used to own a library, too, but something happened and it closed down. Most of the books were lost except for the few she kept in this bookshelf, unread. Me, I have an obsession with reading antique books.

I sprint downstairs and barely avoid stepping on the cat on the way. I list sideways, leaning against the handrail.

"Pacey, get out of the way!" The cat rolls his eyes in a ' _I'm just going to follow you, so what?'''''_ Sort of way and lazily follows me down the stairs. His name was rather ironic. A few years ago, Father sarcastically made up a name for him in contradiction to his slow pace and lazy nature.

I inspect the cover of the book as I run. It was black and dusty, edges trimmed with gold. I couldn't see a title, so I figured it had either scraped off over time or it just didn't have one in the first place. A deep curiosity bubbled up in me. I swung open the front door and set the book down on the porch. Pacey slips out just I close the door.

"What use are you," I sarcastically berate the cat. "You can't even read," I set a mental alarm on the computer in my brain. _Remind me to get Genavié''s coffee in ten minutes,_ I think. _I want to read some of this book first._ I sit down and pick up the book, excited. Pacey meows with anticipation.

I slide my hand under the cover and flip it up, sending up a cloud of dust. I see black ink, but I don't make out what it is before Genavié swings open the door behind me.

"Paris!" She yells. Her makeup is smeared across her face, mascara running, lipstick everywhere, fake eyelashes stuck anywhere except in the right place. Her face surprises me for a moment, and I slap down the cover of the book, dust spewing everywhere.

"Paris! I told you to get me the coffee!" She swipes the book away, another clump of dust in my face. "You're not getting this _livre_ back until you do what I ask.'

"Y-yes, Aunt Genavié!" I nod hurriedly, stand up and run, my heart sinking with dismay.

I exit our neighbourhood and turn left onto Durnes Road, in the direction of the coffee shop. Self-driving cars zoomed past me, all white with dark, tinted windows. Occasionally I see the thin outline of a face squashed up against the glass, looking at the weird, pale girl who never ate, who never drank, who never slept, who never touched water. With the superhuman strength. With no emotions. With the strange intel. Different. Abnormal, almost.

I ignore them.

 _Perhaps I don't have any emotions.,_ I think.

 _I can't change their minds._

The run there seems longer than usual. But same as always, I don't sweat and I'm not even tired by the time I reach the _Café._

The barista, Leah, is one of my few friends. Unlike everyone else, she doesn't find me weird. Every time I ask her questions regarding my weirdness, she always says the same thing: ' _I've seen a lot of weird things in my life. You're not one of them, so stop thinking of yourself as one.'_ But today, it isn't her olive skin and gray eyes I see behind the counter.

Instead, it is a rather awkward young man with brown hair and pale skin in Leah's uniform, stuttering and running around stopping overflowing coffee machines and filling orders messily. He slaps a cup of tea on the counter in front of a bald man. The steaming water splashes everywhere, ruining the man's suit.

"Hey, boy, watch it!"

"Sorry," he calls back.

I recognize him. Or rather, my brain does. His ID and profile immediately comes up on the side of my vision.

"Remi Marais."

At the sound of his name, his head pops up. "Hello, can I take your order?" Remi yells absentmindedly without looking. Then he notices me staring at him. "Whoah! Wh-what? What are you-"

"Where's Leah?"

He gives me a suspicious glance. "Uh, oh… um, on sick leave. Do you know her?"

"Yeah. What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" He scrambles to get a bag of coffee ground under control. He fails, the bag falls, coffee grounds spilling everywhere.

"This is Leah's job. You took it," I say, trying to be as simple and clear as I could get. I could sense that there were people staring at us.

"Leah couldn't come today." He sweeps up the coffee ground. "So much coffee wasted. Leah's going to kill me," he muttered. He then turns back to me. "I told you, Leah's sick. I'm her boyfriend, so I'm filling in for her."

"Really?" I replied. "Why would Leah want a boyfriend as dimwitted as you?" Behind me, the bald man snorted his tea out his nose and bent over, choking. Remi's face went red.

"What sort of question is that? Get out of here if you're not going to order anything!"

My eyes widened. "I am going to order something." I tap two fingers under my left eye, and the holographic screen pops up in front of me. Remi pales. After a few swipes I say, "There, sent you the ticket. Now, one premium black coffee."

"What… what ARE you?" He splutters. "Are you even human?"

"No," I said, "Just someone ordering a coffee. Now, are you going to take my order or not?" The bald man wheezes with laughter. He speaks to me as I walk away from the counter with Genavié's coffee, leaving Remi speechless.

"Good going there, Robot Girl." Then he turns to the woman next to him and says, "We need bots like this to liven up our day, huh?"

 _I cannot change what they think,_ I remind myself.

 _I am not one of them._

 **Later**

"Genavié! Aunt Genavié!" I burst in the door, waving the coffee around.

No response. I step up on the stairs.

"Genavié?" I go upstairs. The door to her room is locked. I curse and rip my pinky finger off. It comes off with a clean _pop_ , no pain or blood. In its place is a metal pin, just the right size to pick through keyholes. I work open the lock and open the door. I pick the coffee up again and push open the door. "Aunt Genavié?"

And my grip on the coffee loosens when I see her… sitting at the makeup table, as always, but this time facedown, covered in blood. The coffee splashes down on the carpet.

 _Genavié's going to kill me afterwards,_ Is all I think.

I walk up to her and grab her shoulder, dragging her up. Her eyes are closed, and her face is covered in red… but no visible wound. Then her eyes slowly open, eyelids heavy and sleep-weary.

"You're alive," I say.

"Paris…" Genavié mumbles. "Did you get my coffee…?"

"Er…." I look back to where the coffee had spilt. "Yes, but you'll have to get a new carpet job."

"Spilled it, didn't you." She begins to doze off again. I shake her. "Huh? Oh, my coffee. You see, Paris, this is what happens to old women like me when we don't get our caffeine." She then looks down. "Ah, the nail polish."

Genavié gingerly picks up the empty bottle, sticky with red nail polish.

"So it wasn't blood." I say.

"Hmmm? What about blood?"

"Nothing."

"Get me the nail polish remover, will you. I need to get this stuff off my face."

"Yes, Aunt Genavié."

I leave Genavié to clean her face with her fingers, red all over her hands until she looks like a murderer. As I exit the room to get her nail polish remover, I try to see if the book was somewhere in her room. Sure enough, there's the black and gold cover, sitting on her nightstand. Although I'm not sure if it is literally possible, I am dying with curiosity to read that book. I do not know why, but something about it… intrigues me, like there is a secret hidden inside waiting to be found.

I set a literal mental note to come and get the book later.

* * *

That night, I lay awake in bed, thinking.

I don't need to sleep; something that precious never happens to someone like me. Instead, I think about the book. How could I get it? I open up my holographic screen and search up "how to steal an object from a bedroom".

Lots of shoplifting methods, but nothing too useful. _If the Web doesn't help,_ I think,

 _Then I'll have to do something on my own._

As I make my way to Genavié's room, I wonder if this is the first burglary that would lead me on the path to a life of crime. Paris Rousseau, the wanted criminal. Known for stealing antique books from houses and libraries. The idea is so absurd I almost laugh. I pad softly through the halls in thick fleece socks, careful not to make a sound. I remind myself of one of those bank robbers I read about all the time in books. The only difference is in the setting and the prize.

I approach the room, slowly twisting my finger open with a _creak._ The sound echoes throughout the house, bouncing off railings and walls and stairs and decor. I twist slower, the sound fading until it eventually comes off with a loud pop. I drop it in surprise and it goes clattering down the stairs.

 _I can't get it now._

I open Genavié's door slowly. Thankfully, it doesn't make a sound. Instead, I do, when I step in the coffee with a squelch. The cold caffeine leaks through my sock, now wet and uncomfortable. I bend down and rip it off, disgusted. _If I don't take it off, it'll leave wet footprints in Genavié's room._

Padding slowly through her room, I notice that the makeup table is still covered in red, lots of it dried and caking the legs of the table and leaked into the floor. _She didn't clean it. Lazy, I suppose._ I remember the coffee stain. _Or just tired._

I freeze as I pass her bed, seeing her face still stained red, her brown hair in hair curls. I feel as if she could open her eyes any time and catch me. _I wish my footsteps could be quieter,_ I think. And, surprisingly enough, when I take the next tentative step, no sound comes out. Relieved, I reach forward and grab the book as quick as I can, then run out twice as fast. I close her door and lock it, then retreat back to my room to read.

Flopping on my bed, I open up my screen, emitting a faint green light on the old book. I open it and blow the dust off the first page. It takes a few seconds to decipher the faded drawing, done on elaborate detail.

 _Huh?_ I look at it again, confused. _A….. a dragon?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, I'm sorry I haven't updated in ages! I was on vacation so I didn't really have the time or internet to update and post. Thanks to all my reviewers, people who followed and favourited this story, thank you for the support. I have a cover, but I am too lazy to upload it right now. I might redraw it anyways. Also received a request for profanity, okay, I heard you. Some of you do remember this story too, so some of this chapter might sound familiar? And I do have subtle references to WoF elements so if anyone notices that..**

 **Yeah so here is what I failed to do for the past few weeks:**

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

I slide the sausage onto a plate next to the piece of toast, then set the plate on the table.

Pacey meows and sidles up to me. I throw him a piece of sausage and he runs off, his prize between his jaws.

Beside me, the NetScreen blares news about the latest battle between Calamity and Ardent.

Rations these days are low. The three sides are fighting again, and most food was sent to the military in the first place. _Genavié won't be getting her coffee today,_ I think.

I pour orange powder into a cup and fill it with cold water, mix it with a spoon, then set the glass of orange juice next to her meal. I peer inside the bag of powder. _Only a bit left,_ I note. _Enough for one more glass, then it's drinking water for days._

Where is Genavié anyways?

I click open a compartment in my thigh and take out the book. It's an odd, rectangular compartment, not very deep, Probably meant for storing numbers of small, heavy objects, but I managed to fit the book in last night. I had also covered it with cardboard to disguise the cover and brushed off all the dust in case Genavié found it. I open it again, and flip to the page where I left off, careful not to rip the ancient pages.

Inside were all sorts of fascinating drawings, most of which are either weathered, destroyed, or simply indistinguishable. Most of them are drawings of dragons, others of weird continents and unfamiliar land. There is not a single written word in it, but plenty of detailed, precise drawings done in black and white.

Wanting to see it again, I flip back to the drawing of the continent. It doesn't look like anything of this world, but with faint resemblance of our-or rather, the Calamity's territory. _Wait, the Calamity territory has a name, doesn't it? The one we saw in history books?_ I can't remember. The file is lost somewhere in my brain and I don't have the time or the effort to find it. I blink one eye, willing my memory to take a photo. A clicking noise goes off in my head, capturing the drawing exactly as I see it. I save it to a file under "Important Info".

 _Genavié's late. Still tired from yesterday. I suppose adults really can't do anything without caffeine._

"Aunt Genavié!" I call, impatient. "Where are you? Breakfast is ready!"

Footsteps.

I stow the book away. The footsteps grow louder and uneven. _She's probably on the stairs,_ I think, watching steam rise from the sausage.

Thud.

 _What was that?_

"Aunt Genavié?" I yell. I run upstairs, my right leg weighted down by the book. My quick pace turns into an awkward hobble. I look to see her laying on the stairs, moaning and clutching her ankle. She looks terrible, with yesterday's makeup smeared all over her face mixed in with the red nail polish. All the makeup doesn't cover up the dark circles under her eyes, weighed down with heavy eyelids. However, the look on her face is not one of weariness, distress, or even pain.

"Paris," she says through gritted teeth, " _Qu'est-ce que c'est?"_ She holds up a familiar small object, pale and twisted.

With a horrible realization, I recognize it.

"That's… that's…." _My finger._

 _It was last night, when I stole the book. I forgot to put it back on… I…_ I look down to my right hand. My index finger is missing, replaced by a couple of greasy wires and a metal pin.

"Did you take it?" Genavié demands.

I don't respond. I've seen people tell lies before, and that usually led to one lie building on top of another and eventually the entire situation spinning into a mess. I don't want to end up like them, but I need that book. _What is wrong with me? Do I want it so badly? It's just another stack of paper._ My gut feeling goes against my brain. I feel as if it is important.

"Where is the book, Paris?"

"I made breakfast." I say.

"Where is the book?" Genavié repeats.

"You're injured. We should get you to a hospital."

"You damn robot!" Genavié screeches. "Answer me, where is it? The book was missing du matin and I tripped on your finger, which can only be used for picking locks!"

I take out the book from my leg compartment.

"Is this it?." Genavié takes it. The cover seems to be cardboard, and there is no dust. I think that she had forgotten what was inside, so even if she flipped inside she wouldn't recognize it. She doesn't even look inside, just turns it over.

"Non….." She hands it back. "Paris, hand me the le téléphone I need to call the police."

"Why?"

"Someone has stolen it, obviously. They knew the worth of that book, and how it…"

This is bad, I think. She's going to call the police, and there won't be any evidence of anyone breaking in from the outside. The only evidence will be pointing to me. Genavié will know I lied, and I might land myself in bigger trouble than I started.

"We should get you to the hospital first." I say. "You're obviously injured."

"Ah, yes."

I shove the book in my room and help her up, then leads Genavié down the stairs and outside. The first thing I notice is how nobody's outside except for the Military, and how the shops lined up on Durnes Road are closed. Windows and shutters of all houses are closed, and not a single sound can be heard. All vehicles are missing, off the roads and off driveways, probably locked in underground garages, along with all lawn ornaments and hoses and sprinklers. Even the basketball hoop is missing from our neighbour's driveway.

"The city's on lockdown." I say.

Genavié groans. "Medical care will have to wait. So will the police, apparently, since they're probably all caught up with the lockdown." We head back inside. I pour her some water and wrap her ankle in a towel, as we have no gauze.

"I'm going upstairs to do schoolwork," I say, heading up the stairs. Genavié nods and picks up a nearby magazine. I open the door to my room and flop on my bed.

I lay there, bored, screwing off each of my fingers to check the tool underneath. It's like a pocketknife, in a way, but mostly weapons. I have a small dagger with a serrated edge concealed in my left pinky, and a tranquilizer dart gun in the other one. My right ring finger is and has never been used for rings, but is a screwdriver. My left ring finger… I hadn't checked in a long time, but upon opening it, I see a saw. I take a moment to puzzle over what it could be used for.

Both of my middle fingers are guns, which I hadn't tried before… and hope I never will. One of my index fingers are used for picking locks, the other one a pen. One of my thumbs are scissors, the other one a pair of pliers. I remember using it repairing automobiles with Father when I was twelve years old.

The first time I discovered the tools in my hands, I was nine.

I was in the park, watching other kids play on the playground. Naturally, I wished I could join them. It was a boiling hot summer day, but I guess my inner AC kept me cool, because I was the only one who didn't burn to a crisp.

Around midday, the playground got too hot for the kids to play on. The metal slide had turned into a frying pan, and the monkey bars were too hot to touch. It made an excellent grill. All the kids recoiled back in the shade and went to the safety of their parents. My parents had summer jobs, so I was stuck here until they could pick me up. Seeing that all the kids had left, I, having no idea why they left, but seeing that opportunity, went to go take it.

I had about three minutes of heaven.

Soon, all the other kids were getting roused up at seeing me enjoy myself all alone. I remember one boy saying,

"Mama, why can't we go play like she is?" I turned around at the sound of that.

"It's not fair!" Said another kid.

"I wanna go too!"

Even the adults were giving me looks and muttering among themselves. "What is wrong with that kid? Doesn't she notice how hot is it out here? Why isn't she getting sunburnt? What is she?" I noticed, but I didn't understand. I kept on going.

Eventually, a couple of kids came over, sunscreen unevenly lathered over their round faces. I still have a clear picture of the boy's face.

"Hey!" He barked. "What's going on with you?"

I paused. I remembered Mother telling me, "If you encounter any strangers, run away and find an adult." I mindset was something like, Step one: run away. So that I did. I knew they couldn't go on the playground, so I turned around and sprinted across the structure., climbing up the monkey bars, which probably served as an excellent meat grill.

It was actually a smart place to hide, as most kids couldn't reach me from there and it was too hot for them to touch anyway.

"Hey, you!" The boy yelled angrily, reaching for me. "Come down here!"

I looked down at him, swinging my legs. "Why?"

"C-Cause you're not making it fair, that's why!" He spluttered.

This brought up a memory of my teacher settling a fight between two kids who wouldn't take turns. I repeated exactly what she said.

"Can you wait your turn please? You've been using it for a long time now. I think it's time for someone else to have a turn." I lay down on the monkey bars and looked up at the sky, letting my arms hang down.

"Whaddya mean? You sound adultish when you say that. Well, you're not my mom or dad!" I was pretty sure I could hear his mom yelling for him in the distance somewhere for him to come back. I ignored him and reached up and grasped for the clouds, as if I could take it in my hands.

"It looks like cotton candy."

I felt something grabbing my hand. I looked down to see the boy tugging on my fingers. "What are you doing?" I asked him without looking down.

"Come down! We can't play, so why can you?"

"Why can you not play?" I look down.

"Cause it's too hot, that's why."

"It is?" I said with genuine surprise. "It is warm out here."

Angry and frustrated, the boy tugged down on my fingers. That was probably the worst choice of his life. I was dragged off the monkey bars. I didn't see very much, but I heard a loud POP and the boy screaming as he tumbled backwards, me falling beside him. I stretched out my arms for balance as I fell, my fingers scraping his skin. Then I was plunged face-first in the sawdust next to him.

The boy was screaming his head off, grabbing the side of his cheek, clutching something in the other hand. I shakily pulled myself up. Something felt like it was missing, and I didn't notice it until his mother came running.

"Mason! I told you! What happened?" She pulled his hand away, fat tears running down the side of his face. There, on his cheek, was a cut trickling blood. I stared at it, wide-eyed. I didn't notice what he was grasping, I could only look at the wound.

He pointed to me, sniffing. "It's-it's her's fault!" I didn't notice that he was accusing me, I could only stare at what he was holding. It was… my finger. I looked down to my left hand. Sure enough, in the place of my pinky finger was a small blade.

At that time, I wasn't entirely sure that hand was mine. When I went home, I tugged on my hand, desperately trying to tug it off. I thought, if my finger can come off, so can my hand. Not only did I fail at ripping my hand off, all four fingers and a thumb came off, revealing all the nasty tools underneath.

That day, I also discovered my inability to cry.

I lay facedown on my bed, eyes squeezed shut, willing the tears to come out. I was denied over and over again, and no matter how I rubbed my eyes, no matter how many times I pinched myself, nothing worked.

Unfortunately, it was also the first time I discovered something about myself.

* * *

At one point, I get up and look out the window. Police and military still roaming the streets, the only cars police cars bearing the symbol of the crossed torches, the symbol of the Calamity. Forbidden to turn any lights, radio, or music on, I sit down at my desk, open up my holographic screen and browse the news.

According to the media, the city was held on lockdown because of the battle. No one was sure when it would end, just that the battle was dangerously close to our city, and should anything happen, we would all be asked to evacuate. I back out of the announcement and scroll through the latest articles.

Then, one that made my heart pump with excitement: _Scientists in organization create first dragon out of dinosaur fossils.._

 _No way,_ I think. _This cannot be real._ I click on the article, only to find with disappointment that the dragon had escaped from the lab as soon as it awoke, and, no, it is not a tourist attraction or be open to the public. I close the article and sit back, slightly disappointed. Then after a period of time wondering where it could have gone, a thought clicks in place in my mind.

 _The dragon's on the loose… which means…. Anyone could find it._

 _I could find it._

 _I would be the first to ever discover a dragon._

 **23 hours later**

The next morning, I wake up to find that the city is still on lockdown, and that the houses are under investigation.

"Why?" I ask Genavié. My aunt shrugs, sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, playing around with the controls and changing the scenery of our walls.

"I don't know. There are rumours going around that there are Ardent spies in the city." I pour her a cup of water. Even the water was scarce. There would be no showers this week. Humanity is going stink by the end of the week.

"Ardent spies?" I ask, although I am really more concerned about the hygiene of our townspeople. It makes sense, since Region 11 was originally Ardent anyway.

Genavié gives me a bored look. "I don't know. Just a rumour. Paris, we're all out of groceries." I noticed, I think. "Can you check in the basement if we have any canned goods?"

"Yeah." I walk over to the basement door. I had actually never been inside the basement, or Genavié, as much as I knew. I doubt it is actually going to be open. Sure enough, when I jiggle the doorknob, it is closed. _Damn._ I pop open my finger again and pick the lock. _I really could making a living picking locks._

The stairway down is dark and musty. It doesn't seem like anyone had been in it recently, so it has probably been untouched for years. I project my holographic screen out of my eye, lighting the stairway up with a faint green light. The basement is more ancient than I expect, cobwebs hanging in corners of the ceiling and the air dank and musty. It makes me wonder how old Genavié's house really is.

I wave my hands around walking all the way down, seeing if there are any sensors that will turn the lights on. I don't see any along the stairway, and no reaction when I reach the bottom either. _Well… I guess I'll have to keep drowning the battery out of my screen._ All holographic screens charge wirelessly, so a few walks around the house or standing close to a power outlet for a few minutes charges it up again.

I flail my arms around wildly upon reaching the bottom, I don't want to crash into any junk that might be there. I hit something with my hand while waving it around, and I look to see a small white panel, with a little lever on it. _A light switch. I thought we only heard about them in history books. Those are ancient._

I would ask Genavié about her house when I went back up..

The basement was messy. That is the first impression it gives me. Sure, there's a tall, dusty bookshelf in the far corner, but it is hardly visible over the heap of junk filling up the space.

I can see everything from a rusty tricycle to a box of ancient chocolate to a glittering wedding gown to dusty picture books to a rubber ball to a knot of tangled shoelaces so large it looks like a ball of spaghetti. As I look around more, forgetting all about the canned food, I realize that most of these are toys. Relics from what must have been Genavié's childhood. To be honest, I never knew Genavié even had a childhood until now.

I don't find any canned food, but I find many other interesting artifacts. There are even a few old books, which I take and tuck under my arm, delighted, secretly hoping that the books will have more on dragons. I find photos, too. In elaborate photo frames of wood and metal, decorated beautifully with precious stones and golden swirls. This form of art looks familiar, I think. It looks Ardent. In the frame is photo of a round-faced little girl with long brown curls holding the big ball of shoelaces, grinning ear to ear. There was even a boy beside her, with the same brown hair and impish smile. I guess that it is likely Uncle.

Something catches my eye, sitting on top of the bookshelf. It looks like a notebook of some sort I climb through the junkyard, tripping over metal bars and stepping on weird patches of mold and my foot clanging as it met a rusty bucket. I eventually fight my way through the heap and reach the bookshelf. The bookshelf is empty, except for a few mothballs and the thickest volume I have ever seen, looking even older than the light switch.

I think about reading the volume, but it doesn't seem to be a language I know of. It's strange, all weird swirls and markings and hard, dark lines. I gather no information about this language, so I conclude that it is either really old and undocumented or inhuman. If it's not human, then… what is it? I give up on the book and look up at the top of the bookshelf, seeing if I can reach the notebook at the top. As tall as I am, I soon find that I have no success. The bookshelf must be at least seven to eight feet tall, almost touching the top of the ceiling.

Recalling all the junk I saw, I take an old, misshapen cardboard box, a large, hard block of styrofoam crumbling apart, the tricycle, the unreadable volume and the ball of shoelaces. Stacking the box on top of the tricycle, the styrofoam on top of the box, and the book on top of the styrofoam and pick apart the shoelaces with my finger-knife to tie them altogether. It takes some time, and I suppose Genavié has forgotten about me by now. I scale the odd stack with surprising grace and balance, and swipe the notebook off the top with ease. I jump off the top of the pile as soon as it collapses, landing in front of the bookshelf on both feet.

Leaning back on the styrofoam block, I study the notebook before reading it. It is very old, hardly anyone writes on paper anymore. All documents can be printed with 3-D mechanism and there is no need to write anything by hand, a MindReader can take your thoughts and put it down on a document. It is painted in a now dull gold with elaborate swirls drawn in permanent marker, lathered with excessive amounts of glitter and too many plastic rhinestones, time scraping away its bright colors. This art form is obviously Ardent. It makes me think twice about Genavié's loyalty to the Calamity territory We live in.

I open the diary and is faced with a picture of what must be a young Genavié, holding a gray and white cat that looks suspiciously like Pacey. The writing underneath, done in surprisingly excellent penmanship, reads: _"Genavié Rousseau, 10. Ardent, Region 67, Sector 23."_

I stare at it for a moment, ignoring the the banging, the footsteps and the screaming upstairs. Honestly, I'm not all that surprised. There is plenty of other evidence in this basement before. But what shocks me most is what Genavié said before, about the Ardent.

 _She pretended to know nothing about it, when… If Genavié is from Ardent territory..._

 _Genavié is the Ardent spy?_

* * *

 **Hehehheehehe I love cliffhangers...**

 **The first sentence of the third-to-last paragraph is not to be ignored...**


End file.
